Wednesday, April 16, 2003

When my father died four years ago, he left me only a ring and a box full of papers. The box, bursting at its seams and damp on the bottom, I took to my basement and left there; the ring I still wear.

I didn't have a breakdown or anything when my father died--well, maybe the usual crying and gnashing of teeth, the endless bowls of spaghetti at midnight, the falling-asleep-with-a-business-suit-on kind of thing. That lasted maybe six months. When we moved into our new house I imagined I'd get over it all, that the light on the walls of my very own house would cure me or maybe even bring me closer to this disembodied force I thought my dad was. My dad was disembodied even when he was alive, anyway, so imagining that he existed in light on the walls or in the soup or whatever was not so far-fetched.

But in fact it's gotten worse. I function better, sure, but I miss him more. I'd like to go have lunch with him. I'd like to hear some stories. It seems like I didn't find out enough when he was alive. I wasn't really capable of understanding anything he told me.

Call the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.
Let the wenches dawdle in such dress
As they are used to wear, and let the boys
Bring flowers in last month's newspapers.
Let be be finale of seem.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.

Take from the dresser of deal,
Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheet
On which she embroidered fantails once
And spread it so as to cover her face.
If her horny feet protrude, they come
To show how cold she is, and dumb.
Let the lamp affix its beam.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.